Stolen Voice
by Friend of the ABC
Summary: As Sherlock and John rush to solve the fourth mystery, Andrew stands in the heart of London as a hostage living the longest eight hours of his life. *Possible Spoilers*
1. The Job

Andrew's mobile buzzed. It was probably Rhiannon, telling him that she was already waiting at the restaurant. Rhiannon was always the one to be extremely early… Punctuality was a sore spot in their relationship. "Always on time for every errand except a date with your girl," she'd said the last time they'd argued. Andrew hated it when she was right.

Andrew slipped his jacket on before he checked his phone. It was a text from Gemma, Mr. Morgenstern's secretary. "COME UPSTAIRS," it read.

Andrew stifled a sigh. Probably a last-minute errand that they wanted him to run… Didn't anyone care that the errand boys here had lives, just like they did? No, anyone here who wasn't an errand boy basically lived at the office.

He texted Rhiannon quickly: "I'LL BE A LITTLE LATE. BOSS IS AN IDIOT. SORRY. YOU CAN SHOUT AT ME LATER. KISSES."

The elevator ride up was painfully slow. The walk to Mr. Morgenstern's corner office was long and agonizing (running wasn't allowed in the office). Already Andrew saw some office workers standing around the water cooler talking. No one said anything to him. He was just an errand boy whose "office" was downstairs, if that little coffin of a room could be called an office.

Errand boy… What an odd job to have. Andrew thought the concept of errand boys only existed in the days before the Internet or even the telegraph. Still, Andrew knew that Morgenstern & Co. was wealthy enough to have a thousand errand boys without putting a serious dent in their spending budget. And a job was a job, especially in today's economy.

He stopped at Gemma's desk.

"You buzzed, Gemma?" he said, holding up his mobile.

Gemma smiled at him with that cool, distant smile that had annoyed Andrew when he first started working at Morgenstern. "Yes, I did. Mr. Morgenstern wants you."

"Any idea what it's about?"

"No. He just wanted one of the errand boys."

"Right, just as I was about to leave."

"Your shift doesn't end for another five minutes, Andrew."

"Oh to hell with my shift. Do I just go in?"

"Yes."

Andrew smoothed the front of his fleece sweater and entered the office, shutting the door behind him.

Andrew had never been in Mr. Morgenstern's office before. It was an oak-paneled room that reminded Andrew of those period dramas he sometimes watched with his mum and Rhiannon. The view was magnificent, with full-length glass windows that overlooked the city. Andrew briefly wondered if he would've gotten a shot at working at an office like this, if he hadn't dropped out of uni ten months ago.

There was a man sitting at a desk in front of the window, looking very much like a rich businessman. Andrew assumed that that was Mr. Morgenstern. Another man, tall and wearing a dark outfit, stood in a corner stony-faced and unmoving.

"You're the errand boy Gemma sent up?" said Mr. Morgenstern.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. You'll do. Now take your sweater off, if you please."

Andrew wanted to laugh at the odd request, but he did as he was told.

"Now," said Mr. Morgenstern, "a good friend of mine has an errand that needs to be run…"

"Well," Andrew interrupted, "not to be rude, Mr. Morgenstern, but I'm supposed to clock out" – he checked his watch – "in three minutes. You see, I've got an appointment after."

Mr. Morgenstern laughed. "Oh, believe me, boy. This errand is one that you don't want to miss. You'll be paid for overtime, of course."

Andrew hesitated. Being paid overtime meant that he could bring Rhiannon to someplace a little fancier. Perhaps she would forgive him…

"All right, then," Andrew said a little reluctantly.

"Good, good." Mr. Morgenstern snapped his fingers at the man in the corner, who produced a vest that looked like something out of a science fiction movie.

Andrew raised an eyebrow. "What's that, then?" he asked as the tall man helped him into the vest. It was heavy and a little unpleasant, full of wires and blinking lights. Andrew couldn't help but feel like R2-D2.

"A vest wired with explosives," Mr. Morgenstern said matter-of-factly.

Andrew burst out laughing this time. "Yeah, right."

"Do I look like I'm pulling your leg?"

Andrew looked at Mr. Morgenstern's composed face and the unmoving features of the man in the dark uniform. The laughter died and his smile began to melt.

"What… What…? You can't be serious. What kind of sick joke is this? You can't force me to do this. You sick bastards." Andrew began to shrug the vest off, but Mr. Morgenstern laughed.

"No, no, my dear boy."

Immediately, Andrew felt cold metal at the nape of his neck. He froze and closed his eyes. There was nauseating knot at the bottom of Andrew's stomach.

"Now, are you ready to listen?"

"I suppose I have no choice," Andrew said, feeling his voice being choked in his own throat.

"If you want to live, you will listen. Now, you will get into the car with Michael, who is there behind you. You will get out when you're told and when you are out of the car, you will call the only number that is listed in this phone." Mr. Morgenstern held up a black, nondescript mobile. "You will receive the rest of your instructions via text. Do you understand?"

Andrew felt himself nod.

"Clever boy. Now put your sweater back on. It covers the vest so well, don't you think? Now, off you go! Goodbye." Mr. Morgenstern wiggled his fingers at Andrew.

Gemma was not at her desk when Andrew exited the office with Michael. The activities in of the office workers were so normal that it seemed so disgusting and unreal to Andrew. Could they not see the way Michael had something pressed into Andrew's back? The gun? Andrew's face, frozen and tight with shock?

No one, as usual, was paying any attention to the errand boy.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Some of what I write might not be entirely consistent with the TV show. Obviously I don't know the back story with the hostages, and I've changed some details to my advantage. I've tried my best to keep everything accurate as possible, though. Please enjoy the story!


	2. Eight Hours

During the car ride, Andrew's thoughts were flying all over the place.

Where were they taking him?

Were they terrorists? Al-Qaeda? IRA?

Was it going to be a repeat of the London Underground attacks a few years ago?

How was he going to contact Rhiannon?

How was he going to contact his mother?

Who was going to take care of Mum if he… did not make it?

And most of all – _Why him?_

Andrew felt his hands grow cold and clammy, his mouth grew dry. It felt as if his senses were heightened. He became very aware of his surroundings – the hum of the engine, the steady breathing of Michael in the driver's seat, the whooshing of the traffic outside…

Andrew knew that his body was preparing him for "flight or fight". He considered his options: Flight would be risky as they could detonate his vest at any moment; fighting would be… well. No one, if they were in their right mind, went up against a taller man with a gun.

The car stopped. Andrew's phone buzzed. A text:

"YOU HAVE ARRIVED."

As Andrew was about to get out of the car, he tried one last tactic. He turned to Michael and said, "Please. You've got to help me. My mum… My girlfriend… Please. Help me. I didn't do anything."

Michael did not turn to face him. "Neither did I," he replied cryptically. Then he pointed the gun to Andrew's forehead.

Andrew tumbled out of the car.

The cold air hit Andrew in the face, clearing his mind a little. He touched his face and found that it was stained with tears. As he took in his surroundings – the giant neon advertisements, the whizzing of the traffic, the patter and bustle of the pedestrians – he felt his stomach tighten again.

Piccadilly Circus. The heart of London.

These bastards were going to strike hard.

His phone buzzed: "SETTLED IN YET? GOOD. TAKE OUT THE OTHER MOBILE. THERE IS ONLY ONE NUMBER SAVED IN THERE. CALL IT."

Andrew, in a brief spurt of reckless courage, decided to text back: "WHAT IF I DON'T?"

A minute later: "YOU HAVE SOMETHING ON YOUR SHIRT."

Andrew looked down to see a red laser spot just over his heart. "Shit," he muttered, feeling his blood run cold. So that's the way they were playing it… Refuse, and you get shot (and probably blown up anyway). Agree, and there was the high probability of you getting blown up.

Now it began.

Andrew felt his breathing grow shallow as he reached for the second mobile phone. He dialed the number listed in there and waited.

A text: "ASK FOR SHERLOCK HOLMES."

The phone rang twice before a woman answered. "Sergeant Sally Donovan."

The police! Why would his kidnappers be directing him to the police? Did they want to get caught? Was this some sort of real-life game of cops versus robbers? The resemblance to that innocent childhood game made Andrew shiver.

"I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes," Andrew said. Could she hear the fear in his voice? Should he tell her what was going on?

"Oh." A note of displeasure in her voice. Was Sherlock Holmes another criminal in police custody? Were they bargaining for his release? "Hang on."

"YOU WILL SAY THESE WORDS – AND ONLY THESE WORDS – VERY CAREFULLY. MISS OR MISPRONOUNCE A WORD AND YOU WILL GO OFF. HAPPY READING!"

Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God.

A man's voice: "Hello?"

Andrew raised his phone to eye-level, feeling his breathing grow heavy. The words on the screen were tiny and almost painful to read in this situation. Andrew swallowed and began reading it word by word in a robotic, steady manner:

"It's okay – that you've gone – to – the police."

"Who is this? Is this you again?"

"But don't – rely on them. Clever you – guessing about Carl Powers. I – never liked – him. Carl laughed at – me – so – I stopped him – laughing."

Oh God. He had laughed at Mr. Morgenstern just now. Maybe they saw the text he'd sent Rhiannon, calling Mr. Morgenstern an idiot. Maybe they chose him because of that text. Oh God oh God.

The man – or Sherlock Holmes, Andrew presumed – replied in a rather sardonic tone of voice, "So you've stolen another voice, I presume?"

A new text. Andrew opened it as fast as his trembling fingers allowed him to: "This – is about you – and me."

"Who are you? What's that noise?"

Another text: "That's the sounds of life – Sherlock. But don't – worry – I can soon – fix that."

Oh God.

"You solved – my last puzzle – in nine hours. This time – you have – eight."

A new text: "HANG UP."

Andrew disconnected the line and dropped the phone back in his pocket again. He longed to collapse and cry, but the sniper's laser was still trained on him. Andrew was afraid any sudden movement might set the sniper off. A mere sneeze from Andrew might set the sniper off, for all he knew.

Eight hours. Eight hours to save Andrew and that Sherlock Holmes character had taken nine to save the last one. Eight hours to live. Eight hours eight hours eight hours. Eight hours left on this beautiful, this mad, this terrifying, this amazing earth, and Andrew was forced to stand in one spot within a hair's breadth of death.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to be sitting on his sofa, listening to his mum make something for supper. He wanted to have a Bud in one hand, his other holding Rhiannon's hand. He wanted so much.

"TIME IS TICKING. EIGHT HOURS ISN'T LONG. YOU SHOULD BE AT HOME WITH YOUR MOTHER AND GIRLFRIEND, SHOULDN'T YOU?"

Could they read his mind? Andrew longed to throw the phone onto the ground. It was the only way he could vent his anger and frustration against his unseen abductor. However, the phone buzzed again.

"YOU CAN CALL ONE PERSON. ONE WRONG WORD AND YOU'LL BE LIGHTING UP THIS PLACE BRIGHTER THAN A SUPERNOVA. I HOPE YOU DON'T MIND IF I LISTEN IN. I'M VERY SENTIMENTAL."

Andrew didn't hesitate. He dialed Rhiannon's number. It rang three times before she picked up.

"I knew you'd be late!" she exclaimed without so much as a "hello". "What's your excuse this time, Andrew? I swear, I'm going to find that boss of yours and pound his skull in."

Hearing the sound of her voice – her strong Midlands accent, her fiery temper – brought tears to Andrew's eyes and a smile to his face.

"Oh God," he said, "you really don't want to be doing that."

"To hell with your job," she replied. "So, where are you? How long will you be? I'm sitting in the restaurant looking like an idiot. The breadsticks and water can only last me so long, you know. God, I feel like a prisoner."

Andrew imagined his abductor laughing at Rhiannon's unintentionally ironic statement.

"Don't wait for me, Rhian," he said. "Just go ahead and order something. The ribs. You like the ribs, don't you? Have a plate on me. Two, if you want."

"Are you all right? Your voice sounds rather stuffed up. Have you caught a cold, Andrew?"

"No! No, I'm just fine. Don't worry about me, yeah?" He cleared his throat.

"Are you crying? Why are you crying? I'm sorry I was harsh. Don't cry." She sounded genuinely apologetic. "Sorry about what I said 'bout your job. I'm sorry I got mad at you."

"It's not you, Rhiannon," said Andrew. "I love you just the way you are. D'you hear me? I love you, Rhiannon. I love, love, love, love you. Please believe that."

"I love you, too, Andrew." She sounded bewildered by his sudden declaration of love for her. "Andrew, what's going on? Are you on something?"

_Come to Piccadilly! _he wanted to shout into the phone. _I want to see you one last time. I have eight hours to live and I want to see you, Rhiannon._

He was listening. The sniper's laser was still dancing on his chest, a naughty little firefly.

"Nothing," he lied, holding back more tears. "I'm feeling… mushy, that's all. Feeling bad that I'm missing dinner. Listen," he wiped his nose with the back of his hand, "if I'm really late just wait for me at my home, yeah? My mum will be there, or else you know where to find the key."

At least someone will be with Mum when they bring her the news.

"All right." To his relief, Rhiannon decided not to probe any more. "I'll see you later, Andrew. I love you."

"I love you, Rhiannon. More than life."

She hung up. Andrew stood there listening to the dial tone for a little while when another text came in.

"THAT WAS SWEET. I ALWAYS LIKE COUPLES IN LOVE."

Andrew punched into the phone: "WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?"

There was no reply.

Andrew felt like he was an empty, hollow shell. All the pedestrians around him did not seem to notice him. No one looked into his tear-stained face. No one saw the little red light on his chest. No one asked him if something was wrong. No one realized how close they came to what might've been the end of their lives.

Ignorance was truly bliss.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Second chapter... I'm having serious insecurities. It's been so long since I've published a piece of fanfiction, and I wasn't very good before. Argh. Please review.


	3. Seven Hours

Andrew felt like he was standing in a dream, some sort of parallel universe, a grotesque parody of his life. In this parallel universe, he was going to have a night out with his girl when his boss gave him the job of being a time bomb in Piccadilly Circus. There was an unseen man (probably watching him through London's countless CCTV cameras) texting him periodically, giving him instructions.

Since calling Rhiannon, the man had been silent. The silence scared Andrew more than the texts.

His watched beeped, making Andrew jump. Seven hours to go. Had it only been seven hours?

A text. From Rhiannon, thank God. "GOING TO YOUR PLACE. I ORDERED THE RIBS TO GO. WE'LL EAT THEM AT YOURS LATER."

He punched a reply. Sod it if his abductors blew him up for texting without their permission. "OKAY. LOVE YOU."

"SENTIMENTAL GIT."

Andrew laughed despite himself. Oh Rhiannon. She was the tough one in this relationship.

A new text. Andrew expected it to be from Rhiannon, but it was from _him. _"AREN'T YOU GOING TO CALL MUMMY?"

Andrew's grip tightened around the phone. Was he allowed another call? What other sick game were they playing? Were they trying to let his guard down before killing him unexpectedly? What did they want from him?

He shouldn't have told Michael about Mum and Rhiannon. They were probably going through employee records now, back at Morgenstern & Co., to find his address. They were going to go after Mum and Rhiannon.

He had told Rhiannon to go to his house. The abductor had heard it.

Oh God. He'd made the job easier for them. What had he done?

Cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He wanted to scream with rage and frustration. He wanted to try to slip out of the sniper's gaze, tear the vest off, and make for home. But no – they were too observant for him to be able to run. There was nothing around him to hide behind. And who knew how many snipers were trained on him?

In that moment of sheer panic, an odd sense of clarity came to Andrew's mind. They had nothing against _him. _Why would they go after his mother and girlfriend? They just wanted to play games with the police, with that Sherlock Holmes character. Andrew was just a pawn in that dangerous game, a pawn without a face and without a name and without an identity. (Even Mr. Morgenstern hadn't even asked for his name.) Mum and Rhiannon were off the board, on the sidelines. The only connection they had to the game was through him and his mobile.

It made sense. There were, of course, a thousand other possibilities; but Andrew chose not to think about them. God knew he had trouble enough.

He dialed his mother's number. He thought about Mum, a semi-retired nurse who had been an immense support to him for the past ten months. She was lean for her age while her other friends had begun to run to fat. Or perhaps recently, the cares and concerns on her mind had been draining her. Andrew suddenly realized how truly tired Mum always looked… She'd done so much for him, but he'd never really _looked _at her.

"Hello? Andy? Is that you?"

Mum was the only one who still called him Andy.

Andrew cleared his throat. "Hi, Mum. Yes, it's me. I just called to say… to say…" He could not go on. To say what? There was so much to say.

Mum jumped in: "Oh yes. Rhian texted me. She said she'd be over and she's bringing something for supper."

"Ah," Andrew cleared his throat again. He lied: "That's what I called to say. I called to say I'll be a while. Don't wait for me. You and Rhian. Go ahead and eat. And watch something nice, yeah? I think there's a documentary about France on the telly tonight."

"Oh don't worry, we'll wait for you."

"No, Mum. Don't. Please. Just eat. You must be hungry." He tried to sound as firm as possible without giving away the stress he felt.

"All right, then. How long will you be?" Andrew could hear the soft sounds of the radio station in the background. Mum always listened to the classical music station.

"A while," said Andrew. _Actually, six hours and forty-seven minutes. _"So don't wait for me. This job's a real pain."

"Yeah, life's like that. Well, I'll see you later." Andrew heard the smile in her voice.

"Mum?"

"Yes, Andy?"

"I love you, Mum. And I'm sorry." He felt emotions choke his words. Andrew wiped his tears away with the back of his shirt.

"Goodness, Andy, it's just dinner." Mum was laughing. "But I love you, too, my Andy pandy. See you in a tick, yeah?"

"Yeah. Bye."

"Bye."

His mum hung up. Andrew lowered the phone slowly and put it back into his pocket.

Andrew saw his house clearly in his mind's eye. They'd moved there when he was nine. The kitchen was always bright – too bright – on clear mornings; his mother's bedroom always smelt of sunshine and white musk, his own room like deodorant and books. The garden had a vegetable garden that his mother tended on her own, now that his dad was not with them; the trampoline which Mum had reluctantly bought for him when he was eleven which was beginning to rust from disuse. The ugly floral sofa which had been a gift from Dad's mum years ago; the new telly…

How he longed to be home. That ordinary house on that ordinary street in Beckton was suddenly a sanctuary to him. He longed to be with her mum and Rhiannon, to love them in the best way that he could and to make up for all the ways in which he was found wanting before.

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks for the kind reviews :). They're very encouraging. Hope you guys liked this new chapter.


	4. Six Hours of Death

Where do we go when we die?

Andrew had had this conversation with different people at different points in his life.

The first time was with the vicar at the church his mum used to bring him to for Sunday School. The vicar had said, "Well, Andrew, the Bible says that if you believe in Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and saviour, then you will have eternal life in heaven."

The second time was with a classmate in college. Dev came from a Hindu family but personally listed his religion as Jedi. Perhaps influenced by his Hindu traditions and his love of science fiction, Dev had told Andrew, "When we die, we are sent to another planet or another parallel universe to inhabit another body and relive our life all over again. Who sends us there I don't know. God? The Force? The Flying Spaghetti Monster? It doesn't matter to us. Some things we are not meant to know."

Andrew didn't quite like the thought of become a Martian after he died.

He'd had a conversation about death with Rhiannon on their first date. He remembered distinctly that they were sitting in a café, drinking hot chocolate, talking about everything from computers to Bertrand Russell to _Doctor Who _to their favourite Disney cartoons.

She had said, "I believe that there's nothing when we die. Our life is here and our life is now. It's a passing dream, this life of ours. When we wake up, there's nothing. We won't even know that there's nothing because there's nothing to know and no consciousness of ours to perceive that nothingness."

"But if there's nothing after we die," he argued, "doesn't that mean that whatever we do here is futile?"

Rhiannon shook her head. "I know that's a pretty good argument against my view of the afterlife, but I think we are forgetting that the earth continues after we are gone. Time continues, reality continues. All the things that we did here on earth, no matter how small, will have their effect on something else in reality. Our good choices, our bad choices. It's our responsibility, if you like, to the others left behind and the others coming after us to make the good choices and to improve this earth of ours."

"But can't we still make the good choices _and _believe that there's _something _in the afterlife?"

Rhiannon smiled that cute, sardonic smile of hers. "I see it this way. If there's something, then I shall be pleasantly surprised. But if there's nothing, I'll have no consciousness with which to think, _Oh damn, just as I expected." _

That was the night Andrew knew that he was going to love Rhiannon forever.

For a long time, Andrew didn't really care about what happened in the afterlife. He adopted a modified version of Rhiannon's philosophy – what matters is the here and now and what we intend to do with this reality of ours.

And now Andrew was here, standing on this busy road in the heart of London with explosives strapped onto him. He could do nothing but call his loved ones (the compassionate yet sickening generosity of his abductors), pass on instructions to the police, and pray that the sniper's bullet did not come flying at him.

He wondered if he believed in the existence of a higher power. His early days at Sunday School told him that there was a God that could not be proved by science. His days at school told him that anything that couldn't be proven by science or human logic probably did not exist.

Ah well. The time that he had left (six hours and twenty-two minutes) he had left was too short to be spent thinking about whether there was a God or not, or if there was anything in the afterlife. He would find out soon enough.

_Soon enough… _

"Oh God," Andrew muttered. It felt as if his heart was simultaneously being split in half yet squeezed tightly. "I don't want to die, I don't want to die!" He couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe.

His exclamation made a few people glance at him, but they continued on his way without caring. It was strange how Andrew had never really noticed how impersonal the urban life was. It was almost as if being a dying man had opened his eyes to so much.

There were so many things Andrew still wanted to do. He wanted to learn how to fly a plane. He wanted to learn how to cook French cuisine. He wanted to wheedle his mum's secret recipes out of her. He wanted to marry Rhiannon; they were going to have lots and lots of children, he had already decided.

All these dreams, unspoken desires in his heart… Now he would never have a chance to realise them.

It seemed such a waste.

So many things seemed such a waste.

Andrew wiped away more tears. No use in crying. If anything was a waste, tears were. He had not much time left and he wasn't going to spend it crying. It would bring too much satisfaction to his abductors.

If he was going to die, he wanted to die well.


	5. Feel

He felt hungry. And thirsty. He hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast and it was already getting late into the afternoon. More than anything, he was craving Mum's blackberry crumble and those ribs Rhiannon had bought from the restaurant they were supposed to meet at.

He was aching. The vest was heavy, making his shoulders and lower back hurt. His feet were killing him, especially his heels. He longed to sit down, or even lie down.

He was numb. The tumult of emotions he had felt on the way to Piccadilly Circus, the blubbering and tears that he had shed while on the phone with that Sherlock character and Rhiannon… All of those had died down, leaving him feeling like he had no emotions at all. The reality that he, Andrew Nightingale, was standing in Piccadilly Circus with explosives strapped to him was beginning to kick in, beginning to feel very… real.

He was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. It felt as if the day had gone on forever. Now, standing in the face of death, Andrew longed for nothing more than a hug. Just a simple hug, reminding him that there were still good and loving and decent people in the world.

The sky was beginning to darken, the neon lights were being turned on. Piccadilly by night had been a favourite of Andrew's for a long time. Tonight, the darkening of the day signaled the approach of his end.

Rush hour was approaching. Already Andrew could feel the number of people increasing. A quick calculation in his head made Andrew realise that the time his vest was due to go off was when the most number of people would be out on the streets. Whoever had orchestrated this entire nightmare was clever. Chillingly so.

Andrew panicked. All these innocent, unwitting people around him… Should he warn someone? Would they believe him? Would the sniper shoot him and detonate his vest if he tried to talk to someone?

Where were the police in all this? They could trace his call, couldn't he? Even if the mobile had an encrypted signal, shouldn't the sounds around him signal them to the fact that he was standing somewhere major, somewhere central? Why weren't they issuing a warning? Has no one noticed something odd about a haggard-faced young man who has been standing on this street corner for the past four hours?

There were unseen events and forces that were directing Andrew's life. It was a sickening feeling.

Four hours left in his life.

If he had four hours left under any circumstances, what would he do?

He would eat a lot of ice-cream and orange juice. He'd heard that it wasn't a good idea to consume citrus and dairy within an hour, but who cared about discomfort when you were about to go? He would spend an hour with his mum, probably just talking. Then he would spend the rest of his life with Rhiannon. They would be listening to his iPod on shuffle, which would mostly be the Smiths, the Killers, MGMT, Radiohead, and Bloc Party. Mostly the Smiths.

His phone buzzed.

"HELLO ANDY PANDY. TIME TO MAKE ANOTHER CALL."


End file.
